Shadows, hide me away
by mercywestforever
Summary: "The night felt like it was stretched out and heavy on their shoulders, their hearts burning and their souls freezing from the loneliness that consumed them. He looked at her. She was folded into herself, her eyes never leaving the ground as she trudged through the empty streets surrounding the hospital." / Jackson, April, mourning, losing, suriving and going on.


Because I will never be over the tragedy that was the shooting.

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters mentioned. All the rights to them and Grey's Anatomy belong to shondaland and ABC.**

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><p><em>Don't you hear me screaming loud<em>

_My broken cries_

_My hollow wails in the silent night_

_Don't hear my broken pleas_

_My last innocence_

_Fleeing into the darkness of today_

His arms felt limp. His head was made out of lead. His whole body was thrumming. He was unable to move.

The night felt like it was stretched out and heavy on their shoulders, their hearts burning and their souls freezing from the loneliness that consumed them.

He looked at her. She was folded into herself, her eyes never leaving the ground as she trudged through the empty streets surrounding the hospital.

She had said that she couldn't go home, that she wouldn't go home and he had decided that he couldn't leave her alone, that he wouldn't leave her alone. Not tonight. Not ever.

There was an eerie silence that consumed them. Deep down he felt the urge to say something- maybe talking would make things easier, better, more bearable- but there was nothing on his tongue that would leave his mouth.

For moment he wished his mother was there. She had always something to say. He wondered quietly what she would say in a situation like this;

"I'm so sorry."

"It's going to be alright."

"They are in a better place now."

Would any of this make a difference? He didn't think so.

He looked back over at her. She appeared so small, so innocent. She was wearing a hoodie that was too big for her and drowned her almost completely. Maybe it was his. He couldn't remember. Her dull hair was pulled back and her pale face was free from make-up.

He wanted to know what she saw today, what disturbed her peace, what made her loose her beliefs in everything good in the world. But he knew that he couldn't ask. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Maybe those memories would forever be hidden by her, treasured in the depths of her mind. Those soul-shattering pictures and feelings that would scare everyone away who had not experienced the things they did today.

He wasn't sure if he would share his experiences with her. If he would tell her what it felt like to stand in the OR knowing that some lunatic was running around shooting people, shooting his friends, and having to pretend that everything was alright; what it felt like to wait in that OR with people he didn't know, having to fear to die with those people without learning their name before they found them.

He could feel those memories burning into his skin, imprinting on his heart, leaving scars in their wake. Scars that nobody would ever see. Scars that would make it hurt to move (on).

You know how to tell you to never take anything for granted? How they tell you to appreciate every happy living moment, every beloved person? He never really took those words to heart. He should have. He thought that the problem was the fact that you never really believe that the things could be taken away from you until you walk the streets at night with two dead friends.

For a brief moment he wondered what they would do if they were in their place. Would they get drunk until they forget the events? Or would they drink to remember all the shared moments? Maybe they would try to flee into the numbness of sleep or maybe they would avoid the chance of nightmares bringing back flashes of the day.

Once again he looked over at her, trying to figure out if she was thinking like that as well. He found it incredible that while she normally wore her heart on her sleeve, she dissolved into complete stillness when she suffered from a broken heart. It was that way when she got fired or whenever she lost a patient.

Today was no exception. She had been quiet ever since they left the crime scene. The only thing she said was that she didn't want to go home. Since then they had been aimlessly wandering around, passing by bars, stores, people whose worlds hadn't been shattered a few hours ago.

He wondered if they looked any different to them.

He was gravitating towards her by now. Maybe it was the cold, maybe the darkness, maybe the emptiness that was starting to consume him. Right now, in this time, at this moment, she was the only thing he had left; his only hope, his only rock, his only friend, his only connection to this world.

And the way she slowly let herself fall against him signalized that the feeling was mutual. Her breath fanning against his skin was the reminder he needed that he was still alive. And after today he needed that.

A man walked into their hospital, their working place, their safe haven with the intention to kill people. And he did exactly that.

Today he lost two of his closest friends. Two of the few people he ever let in.

Tonight he was wandering the streets without a destination, losing his mind along the way and clasping onto the one bright light that shined dim beside him.

And tomorrow?

He had no idea.

Tomorrow would probably come before today ended and life would pass them while they were stuck in this paralyzing haze.

One day something would force one of them out of it and hopefully that someone would be able to drag the other with them. One day they would look back and be proud that they survived, that they didn't fall, that they build themselves up again.

But that day lay far in the future. Right now they were lying broken on the ground. Shattered and unfixable. Their wound didn't heal yet and the scars didn't close their fragile shell yet.

All they could do was to pretend that they could go on. They needed to fool themselves and each other into getting up. And if one of them fell they needed to catch them.

They were silent in their grief but their cries for help echoed loud in the waste of what their lives used to be.

And only one person heard them, the one who was caught with them in that state.

Suddenly he knew what he needed to say, how to answer her silent pleas. His voice was raspy, broken and not his, foreign because he wasn't the person who he heard when he last spoke anymore. But she still recognized it hidden underneath the layers of hurt, loss and fake braveness.

"We're going to survive this."

_Don't you hear me?_

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><p><strong>thanks for taking the time to read this<strong>


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